


English Summer

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Love, M/M, POV First Person, first touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We are quite a sight in all our shameless glory - A matching set of naked, skinny bodies, lying with our arms and legs sprawled out on the weather-beaten dock like two anatomically correct gingerbread boys baking in the midday sun.  The water evaporates quickly from my skin, leaving me feeling toasty and content, drunk on country air and sunshine, and on Scorpius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gratitude goes out to ColorfulStabWound for inspiration, friendship, and encouragement.
> 
> I borrowed lyrics from the song "English Summer Rain" by Placebo.
> 
> For Scorpius, who loves to dance, and Albus, who loves Scorpius.

“Hold your breath and start again,” he says, his face eclipsing the sun and his pale gold hair glowing like a halo in the bright, summer light.  It’s a rare sunny day on the English countryside.  Perching atop the wooden dock, Scorpius looks like an angel in Heaven above me, and I am falling.  I am floating.  I am sinking into Hell.

“I can’t, it’s too deep,” I say, wiping lake water out of my eyes and coughing it out of my throat.

“But it’s really not,” he insists, “If you wouldn’t panic, you’d be able to reach the bottom.”

“Have you tried it?  I don’t care what you say.  It is way more than ten feet deep.”

“If you won’t do it, you’ll have to forfeit and take another dare,” he warns.

But I see my escape route and I rush towards it.  “Deal.”  I climb onto the dock with much effort, my shorts heavy and laden with water.  I sprawl out on my back, breathless.

His face is always there, following me wherever I go, just like the sun.  And here it is again, hovering upside down above me, casting a welcome shadow.  “Then I dare you to do it again,” he says, “Naked, this time.”  The corners of his lips curve, and from my perspective, it looks like a frown.  But right side up, Scorpius is smirking mischievously.

The cold lake water had chilled my skin, and now it feels warm – heated by his gaze and by his words.  I reach up.  My arms stretch skyward toward the sun –  _my_ sun.  And I don’t give a damn if I get burned.  My fingers find the back of his neck.  He shivers beneath my cold touch.  I pull him down for a kiss. 

The kiss is all juxtapositions – a black and white study in contrasts.  His lips are warm and cracked dry from exposure to the summer heat.  Mine are wet and nearly blue from plunging repeatedly into the freezing lake.  My mouth is a conduit of reverence and love, pressing chastely against his.  His mouth closes upon mine, imparting something darker, something sinful.  When his tongue brushes against mine, he tastes of desire and of temptation.  And I begin to wonder who is actually the angel and who is the devil between us.

He purrs against my lips, “Go on now, Albie.  Do it.”

For a moment, I forget my mission, and all I hear is seduction.  When I kiss him again, I’m reminded that neither of us is an angel.  We are both little deviants in the making.  He’s still upside down to me when we’re kissing, and our lips stay in touch while I unfasten the buttons of my shorts and push them down.  My underpants go with them, both articles of clothing having been rendered a single cohesive garment by the depth of their soaking.  Maybe it’s because he’s upside down that I don’t feel his eyes on my nakedness. 

The sun is heavenly on my skin as I bask beneath it like a hedonist, unashamed.  I thank the gods for the numbing effects of the cold, for I would surely have something to be ashamed about otherwise.  Being naked out in the open is a thrill in itself on top of the delight of that deviant tongue mapping the inside of my mouth.

He pulls away and rights himself.  Suddenly, I feel the vulnerability of nudity, and rush to hide my body by jumping back into the water.  It’s even colder without the protection of clothes and I feel like my balls are going to resorb into my body.  Gravity and momentum pull my head under water.  I panic reflexively, scrambling to break the surface of the lake.

He’s there again when I emerge.  My solar eclipse.  On his knees and gripping the edge of the dock.  “You can do it, Albie!  Hold your breath, count to ten, and you’ll be there.”

I’m treading water, shaking my wet hair out of my eyes.  My breath comes in short, erratic gasps.  It’s so fucking cold.  Above water, it’s August, and below, it is Hell.  “And then what?” I ask rhetorically.  If he’s right, in ten seconds, I’ll be at the bottom of the lake.   But will I be able to hold my breath another ten seconds or more to swim up for air?

I start to panic inside.  If he loved me, he wouldn’t make me do this for his amusement.  If he loved me, he wouldn’t want me to risk my life for a stupid dare.  If he loved me, he wouldn’t have let me back in the water and we’d still be snogging on the dock.  My panic is no longer simply from fear of hypothermia and drowning.  Maybe Scorpius doesn’t love me.

“And then start again.  Count to ten.  You’ll be back.”  He smiles as if it’s so simple.  As if I couldn’t get lost in the darkness of the murky water.  As if I couldn’t run out of air and swallow the lake.  As if drowning weren’t a thing.  “If you’re not back up in 20 seconds, I’ll rescue you.  Promise.  I’m not going to let you drown.”  That smile brightens, outshining the sun, reassuring me that I’m safe.  That he cares about me.

My breathing evens out and its pace becomes regular.  I nod and find my resolve.  I’m going to do it.  He’ll be so impressed.  He’ll wrap his arms around me, kiss me on the cheek, and tell me how brilliant I was.  He’ll tell me that he loves me.

I take a breath and let my lungs overinflate.  My arms push out in wide arcs in the shape of angel’s wings and I dive.  I sink.  I swim toward the bottom, counting in my head.  One… two… three… four…

I’m already feeling the pressure on my chest.  It’s so dark.  So empty.  So vast and consuming. 

Five… six… seven…

It’s colder down here.  So much colder than my first half-arsed attempts flailing near the surface.  Deeper, and deeper I go.  And I begin to panic.  Eight…nine… ten… the bottom isn’t coming and I don’t know if it will any time soon.  My heart thuds inside my compressed chest and I can feel every anxious beat.  I fight the immense urge to take a breath.  Eleven… twelve…  _You fucking lied, Scorpius._  

A thought crosses my mind – if I die here, Scorpius is going to have to explain to his parents why his best friend drowned in the lake on the grounds of the Malfoy estate.  And furthermore, Scorpius’s father would have to explain to my dad how I turned up dead on his property.  It would be an ugly scene.

But then the ribbons of faint light coming down through the water illuminate something starkly white in the green darkness.  I could scream with joy, would it not mean instant death.   I’m there in thirteen… fourteen…  _got it!_ I stretch my arm down, kicking hard with my legs to stay at this depth, and pluck a broken piece of china from the slimy, rocky bottom of the lake. 

I’m hit with the sudden realization that I probably should’ve given up at ten.  Everything hurts as I swim furiously toward the surface, toward the rippling light of the sun.  My muscles start to cramp and I feel a Charlie Horse coming on in my right calf.  Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen.  My mouth instinctively opens and I release a plume of deoxygenated air bubbles without meaning to.   Sixteen… seventeen… eighteen.    _Oh gods, I’m going to die here._ I see pin-pricks of bright, white flashes.  It isn’t magic.  They aren’t underwater stars.  It’s oxygen deprivation.

Nineteen… twenty… twenty-one.  How did I get so deep in the first place?  How is it possible that I am kicking and paddling like mad and getting no closer to the surface?

An explosion of bubbles appears above me, and a blurred, white figure comes into focus.  It is an angel, with a halo of platinum upon his glorious head, descending into Hell.  He is made of light; of fluid, white, marble.  He moves gracefully in the water, like he belongs here - a siren of the lake.  I’m swimming desperately toward him as he swims toward me.  A hand reaches out and grabs me by the arm.  Suddenly, I’m being pulled upward by an ascending angel.

We break the surface together with a duet of audible gasps.  I drink in the air too hastily, too desperately, and cough wetly.  Much needed oxygen clears my head and returns my lost senses to me. 

Between panting breaths, I huff, “It’s deeper than you think.”

“Yeah, I gathered,” Scorpius says, also catching his breath, but not nearly as winded as I am.  “I’m sorry.  You don’t have to try anymore.”

I can’t help but grin smugly.  “No, I don’t,” I agree.  My hand comes out of the water triumphantly, clutching a broken, algae-spotted teacup by its handle.

“Fucking brilliant!” he exclaims with a blinding grin as he takes the cup from my hand as if it is sunken treasure.  “I knew you could do it!”  He ruffles my wet hair and regards me with an expression of admiration.  Somehow I’m blushing despite my near-hypothermia.  He’s still excited when he shouts, “It’s cold as balls in here!  Bloody Hell!”

“I know!  I’m nearly frozen,” I concur.  But really, I’m melting inside.

When we come out of the water and clamber onto the dock, it becomes glaringly apparent that Scorpius had taken the time to shed his clothes before he had come to my rescue –  _all_ of his clothes.  He flops down on the wooden planks with his long limbs spread out like a sun-bleached starfish.  It isn’t the first time I’ve seen him naked – we’d been sharing a dorm room and a communal shower for six years.  But as many times as I’ve seen him this bare, he still manages to take my breath away.  It’s fortunate that I have another excuse for my open-mouth breathing.

Scorpius has always been comfortable in his own skin.  He had told me once that his grandmother taught him never to be ashamed – that being a Malfoy, despite what the rest of the world said, was something to be proud of.  Scorpius seems to take that lesson to its fullest, most literal, extent.

We are quite a sight in all our shameless glory - A matching set of naked, skinny bodies, lying with our arms and legs sprawled out on the weather-beaten dock like two anatomically correct gingerbread boys baking in the midday sun.  The water evaporates quickly from my skin, leaving me feeling toasty and content, drunk on country air and sunshine, and on Scorpius.

Like a flower angling toward the sun, my face turns to the side to face him when he speaks, his voice lazy and low.  “You believe me now, don’t you?” he infers more than asks.

“About…?”

“The china at the bottom of my lake,” he clarifies with a small giggle.

I respond with a soft chuckle of my own.  “Oh, that.  Yes, I believe you.  Though I never really doubted you.  No offense, but I’d never put it past your mother for dumping an entire tea set into the lake in a drunken rage.”

“Not just a tea set, the entire collection of heirloom china.  Dinner plates and all.  Enough pieces to entertain a party of fifty guests.  It was something like a hundred years old.”

“Why didn’t your father just take it out with magic?” I ask.

“I think he was so resigned.  He was just glad to be rid of her.”  The way Scorpius speaks of his parents’ divorce in such a detached way never ceases to disturb me.  I keep waiting for him to crack and break down, but he never has.  He adds blithely, “No point anyway.  The only person left to inherit it is me, and he knows I’ll never have a need for it.”

“Not a fine china sort of bloke, hm?”

“Definitely not.”


	2. Chapter 2

When we’re this close, and all I see are his eyes, I could almost forget where we are.  Under the shade of a willow tree upon the cool grass, lying on our sides, facing one another, it is possible to overlook the fact that we are both still without our clothes.  But the heat of his stare won’t let me disregard that fact.  When Scorpius looks at me like that, with his silver eyes darkening to the color of a thunderstorm, I feel more naked than my state of undress.  I’m a moth transfixed, yearning toward his light as my heart beats like fluttering, buzzing wings – wings that become singed as I burn.

I could forget to breathe.  Funny how, only a moment ago, I had been so obsessed with consciously, purposefully not breathing.  Dizziness reminds me and I take in a long, deep breath just before he steals it from me.  He takes my lips.  I take his tongue.  He takes his time until I’m undone.  There is purpose and ambition in every move  – this is the way Slytherins kiss – with teeth and grit.  He knows just what he does to me.  And I love it this way.

There’s no question that I do.  He must feel it in my pulse beneath his caress.  The hand that owns me and loves me moves slowly, predatory, tracing the curve from my neck to my shoulder.  Fingers glide along my arm and make the hairs stand on end.  They come to rest on the sharp edges of my hip.

“I love you,” he breathes into my mouth and it’s as if he is whispering his soul into my body.  His grip tightens on my hip and he catches my lip between his teeth before I can reply.

But he knows how I feel even if I can’t verbalize it.  He has always known.  My love is spelled out in every song I write and is spilled upon my fist every night I want him too much.  The former is no secret, but the latter is one I’ve been keeping from him.  Perhaps he knows that too.  Really how could he  _not_ know – when I’m lying in the bed next to his in the dorm room, sweating behind the green velvet curtains, biting my bottom lip as hard as he fucks me in my dreams, the telltale sounds must be familiar to less-than-innocent teenage ears.

It drives me mad when he kisses me like he wants to be inside me, but in the end, just fucks with my head.  I don’t know why we haven’t let things follow their natural progression - why he always works me up until I’m desperate and straining against the seam of my trousers while he appears so unaffected. 

Dare I hope that this time will be different?  Perhaps it will be.  It’s certainly unlike any situation we’ve found ourselves in before.  This isn’t a dusty broom closet between lessons or the greenhouses after hours or under the quidditch stands at night.  We’re not hiding here.  In the absence of adult supervision, we have nobody to hide from.

I have never pushed him.  I’ve always let him set the pace.  But right now, I gently guide him with encouragement.  My hand caresses his arm, my fingers following the lines of his subtle musculature.  The pads of my fingers brush over his wrist, which sits upon my hip.  But instead of keeping his hand there as I had hoped, he moves it away and rests it on the grass between us.

He smiles brightly and whispers, “Sorry.  Got a little carried away.”

“No need to apologize, Scor,” I say, mirroring his grin.  I then bite the corner of my lip coyly before shyly nudging him. “You’re allowed, you know?”

“Well, I’m never one to like doing only what I’m allowed to do,” he replies, his smile shifting into a smirk.

I follow suit without skipping a beat. “So if it’s forbidden, you like it more?”

“It’s why I love  _you_  isn’t it?” he teases, his eyes twinkling.

“What if I told you that you’re not allowed to kiss me anymore?”  I propose, clearly baiting.

He takes hold of me by the back of my neck and kisses me hard and fast until I’m breathless.  We reach a crescendo, and as usual, he comes down quickly from it, leaving me hanging on that note.

As our kisses become languid and tender, I mumble, “You’re not allowed to touch me… here.”  I demonstrate with the back of my hand on his abdomen.  It’s flat and smooth, and his skin feels deliciously warm.

“Like Hell, I’m not,” he declares with sultry defiance.

He mirrors the gesture with the back of his hand upon my mid section.  Such a simple, innocent touch sends my body aflame.  It’s embarrassing how easily I’m affected.  And then the unimaginable happens.  His hand brushes my waking arousal on a down stroke as he pets my abdomen.  It feels almost accidental, but I know Scorpius well enough to suspect it’s intentional. 

I won’t outwardly respond to it, fearful that he’ll mistake my reaction for rejection.  But inside, my heart rate skips into a thudding gallop and my nerves crackle with electric bliss just beneath my skin’s surface.  This could be the moment that everything changes.  If it had truly been a calculated move, however subtle, I want him to do it again.  So I pretend to ignore it and play the game. I play directly into his hands. 

“It’s prohibited,” I say, “My entire body is off limits, in fact.”

“Is that so?” He mumbles against my lips as his hand returns, this time to the top of my thigh.

We stare unyieldingly at one another as he caresses me with a feather-light touch that rouses all my senses.  I want to feel him firmly, to inhale him deeply, to savor the taste of him.  I want him so badly it hurts and I’m sure he can sense my internal struggle for control over my raging desire. 

The next “accidental” slip of his hand cannot be ignored.  My body reacts instinctively to the back of his fingers sliding down my length, and there’s no mistaking that I’m more than tolerant of his touch.

There’s a palpable tension in the air, as turgid as my flesh rising between us, twitching with need beneath his fingers.  The game is a standoff - We both have our poker faces on and neither of us is willing to succumb to the other, though I’m probably ineffectively feigning my resolve.  His indifference, as usual, is a flawless rouse.

“That’s definitely forbidden,” I say, with a quiet gasp and a reassuring grin.

His lips brush against mine and I could evaporate from the heat of his whisper.  “You know I’m all about forbidden,” he says.

My words are sibilant and hot against his open mouth.  “Touch me like it’s illegal.”  It is both a challenge and a plea.

And then we both give in.  We abandon pretense and shed our dignity, if we ever had any at all. Teasing advances to exploring, which quickly escalates to plundering, though neither of us protests the theft of our innocence. It is unclear where his body ends and mine begins, so entangled we become in a roiling mass of flesh and sweat.  

I feel like I’m at the bottom of the lake again.  My muscles tense as my body instinctively aches to reach the surface.  But I’m perfectly happy to be at this depth, consumed by darkness, consorting with demons.  Why would anyone want to come up for air when drowning feels this blissful?  I struggle to stay underwater. I am too buoyant to keep myself below the surface.  It’s too soon to come up for air.  If I surface now, it’ll be humiliating, for I really should be able to last longer than this.  I feel like I could die from the delight which blossoms from every place he touches and kisses and licks and sucks.  I’m overwhelmed by the novel sensations he elicits.  The feel of his slippery flesh in my eager hands and in my greedy mouth could potentially incapacitate me.  And so I count inside my head in an effort to keep focused on something other than the pleasure that’s threatening to ruin me utterly.

_One… two… three… four…_

I hold my breath. 

_Five… six… seven… eight…_

I am falling apart.

_Nine… ten… eleven… twelve…_

I am sinking.

_Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen… sixteen…_

I am drowning.

_Seventeen… eighteen… nineteen… twenty…_

I am dying.

_Twenty-one…_

This is my Hell and Scorpius Malfoy is my sweet torment.


End file.
